


take my hand (so i know you’re the real thing)

by writer



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer/pseuds/writer
Summary: He meets her for the first time when he's fifteen, & that's where the story of destiny begins.—Ichigo & Rukia, from start to end to start.





	take my hand (so i know you’re the real thing)

**Author's Note:**

> for ichiruki month. for the soft epilogue we deserved. & most of all, for those that have stuck by ichiruki unwaveringly, whether you started from year one or year fifteen. thank you.

one.

she is shinigami, and he is human.

he meets her for the first time when he is fifteen, when she walks through his wall ( _literally_ ), hand resting on the hilt of her sword, gaze hard and searching. she mutters under her breath, and he barks for her to talk louder. she acts as if he is air, as if she can't even hear him. he takes a deep breath—

—and kicks her to the ground. "stop ignoring me, dammit!"

 

 

 

two.

she comes in through his window, mostly, climbing in and out at the most ungodly of hours, leaving behind only a faint chill that warms ichigo to his bones and the scent of snow. he used to lock it, but nowadays he leaves it open for her. there is a futon in his closet, and at night she rouses him, pulls him out of his body to fight hollows. he barely sleeps at night anymore, but he is happy. 

one night, he gets careless—he slashes recklessly, enjoying the adrenaline that thrums through his veins, waits a little too long before he jumps back, and there's the sound of ripping cloth, flesh tearing as the hollow manages to strike him across the chest with a claw before dissolving into dust. pain crashes over his body like waves on the shore, and he grunts and stabs his zanpakuto into the ground just to remain upright. "ichigo!" the shout is instantaneous, panicked. 

"hey, rukia," he says, trying to be casual, waving a hand lazily in the air; that is, until his vision tilts sideways and he sees rukia's face swimming before his vision, hands gripping tightly onto his biceps, cheeks red with exertion, eyes shining bright with worry and—are those tears? he can't really think straight right now. or see straight, for that matter. but her face is there, hovering over him, and her eyes are so purple, so pretty and wide and bright; she must’ve flown to the sky to pick stars to put in her eyes. maybe she can take him with her next time. she blinks at him, and opens her mouth to speak, but he can’t really make out what she’s saying. ichigo thinks, _man, she's beautiful._ then blacks out.

 

 

 

three.

when he comes to, he’s in his bed and rukia is standing over him, staring intently at him as her hands pass over his body. the healing kidou she's performing on him feels cool and light, like an undercurrent of water moving over the surface of his skin, refreshingly cold against his overheated skin. "you finally woke up," she says, and her whisper is relieved. "you've been out for almost an hour."

"what happened?" ichigo asks groggily. "what did i do?" uncharacteristically, rukia blushes a pretty shade of pink and raises a hand as if to smack him, and then thinks better of it, considering his wound. she pinches him lightly on the arm instead, and he flinches and squirms. ichigo's brow knits, and he strains to remember if he did something stupid before he passed out like confess his love for her. that’s supposed to be top secret, but it’s all he can do to keep from blurting it out on a normal day, let alone in the uninhibited, woozy state the bloodloss from the hollow attack had brought on.

"you…said i was beautiful and then passed out," she says hesitantly. 

well. there was that, too.

 

 

 

four.

"you're kind of like peter pan," ichigo says, once. rukia pauses from where she’s straddling his stomach, tracing shapes onto his clothed chest with her fingers. his thumb rubs a circle into her right hip from his hand’s position on her upper thigh. he shudders as her fingernail skates over his nipple from on top of the fabric, as she straightens and cocks her head to the side, smiles blankly the way she does when keigo goes off during school. it’s the smile that looks like she’s politely listening, but really it’s her way of telling ichigo _i have no idea what’s going on._ he catches her look and explains, "peter pan was this guy that lived forever in another world where no one there aged. it was like a disney movie. he fell in love with this human girl named wendy though, and—“ 

rukia promptly slaps a hand over his mouth. "ow, what the fuck?" he protests, voice muffled behind her fingers. 

"stop it," she says after a beat, and her voice sounds odd, thick like she’s got something caught in her throat. he pulls her down and wraps his arms around her on instinct, prying her hand away from his mouth and letting it rest on the side of his throat as he hugs her. "i don't want to hear such a tragic story." he relents, pulls her tighter to his chest. it's silent between them for a second, and ichigo is content to just _exist_ , here, in this moment, with her.

"also," she adds thoughtfully after a while, and ichigo winces at the way her voice promises pain, "i am not a boy."

 

 

 

five.

he doesn't wonder about the fact that she automatically assumes it's a tragic story just from the circumstances. 

(at least, not at first.)

 

 

 

six.

she counts the days, the months that pass. she knows she shouldn't, knows that these kinds of things—days, months, years, even—mean nothing to her in the big picture of her afterlife as a shinigami. but it matters, for him. he has a life, here—friends and family that he can’t— _won’t_ leave behind. she would never ask him to. rukia’s already taken enough from him; the least she can do is give him as normal of a life as she possibly can. she'll live for centuries, perhaps even longer if she’s really lucky, but ichigo—he'll wither to nothingness, become a plus in the same amount of time she spent studiously avoiding and ignoring renji. he’ll disappear into the thick reishi of the soul society, and who knows how long it might then take for his soul to re-take its shape. she's heard of it taking centuries for a soul to find its way back. it matters, for ichigo. days, months, years. it all matters.

so she counts them for him, treasures each one with a bittersweet press of lips to inked black dates on a photo paper calendar. counts them with the kisses he places on her knuckles when he takes her hands in his. another day spent, another day lost. another step closer to when he'll kneel before her so she can press the butt of her sword hilt to his forehead, watch him sink into the ground and disappear. "i love you," he says, and she doesn't realize she's crying until he brushes her tears away with a callused thumb. 

 

 

 

seven.

"what are you reading?" renji asks.

"peter pan," rukia says.

 

 

 

eight.

"don't you know what you're doing to him?" renji says, angry.

"renji," rukia says, and her voice is pained. he doesn't pause, doesn't hesitate, his own pain coloring his tone as he grasps her hands desperately.

“you have to let him _live_ , rukia,” he says, and she hates that he’s right. “let him be a normal human. let him get a job, fall in love, have kids. not—not spend his life chasing a ghost that can’t be with him. can’t you see you’re hurting him?”

she tugs her hands out of his grip, wipes fiercely at her eyes. doesn't say, _can't you see i'm hurting too?_ her voice is bitter when she says, “i _know,_ renji. of course i know.”

“then why? i could be so much more," renji says, and he's pleading, reaching again to entwine her hands in his, his warm breath fanning over her face. he smells like taiyaki, like sweet bean paste and flour. it's not the same as ichigo's sandalwood and vanilla notes, and rukia misses him. “you belong here, with me. i could be all you ever needed and more, rukia. if you'll just let me."

she tugs her hands out of his grip once more, and he watches her disappear through the door for the second time with half-lidded eyes and clenched fists, too powerless ( _again_ ) to reach out and spin her around, too cowardly to stop her in her tracks.

the problem, rukia thinks, is not that she won't let him. it's just that—renji could be all she needed, maybe. but _ichigo_ is all she’s ever _wanted_.

 

 

 

nine.

a few days later, she goes back to the living world. renji paces and paces around the sixth division’s barracks, snapping at subordinates until byakuya dismisses him with a put-upon sigh, the downward twitch of his lips the only other sign of his discontent. renji knows he’s worried about rukia too.

it’s why when she comes back this time, tear tracks on her cheeks and mussed hair, bruised lips and hiccuping breaths, renji greets her at the senkaimon. and he doesn't say a word.

 

 

 

ten.

it’s been sixty years.

he is old, now. his once obnoxious, bright orange hair is grey and falling out, his large hands wrinkled and spotted with age. his knuckles are gnarled now, but his hands can still easily cover her sides, closing around her waist. his bones creak, ache under his own withering weight, and when he moves his movements are jerky, hesitant, so painstakingly _slow_ , so unbearably unlike the ichigo of decades past—the ichigo that could move so fast even the eyes of one kuchiki byakuya could scarcely catch him. his joints cry out with arthritis, but his eyes still shine as brightly as they always have. rukia approaches him cautiously, as if he were an escaped tiger in a zoo and she the frightened, cornered child. she wants to ask him so many questions— _did you live happily without me? did you get married? have kids? grandkids, even?_ —but she locks them all up inside. she’s not sure she wants to know the answers. "ichigo," she whispers, her voice cracking on the syllables, and he looks up. stares straight through her.

"rukia," he croaks, and she can see pain, sadness, happiness, relief in his eyes—or is it just a reflection of her own eyes? it's hard to see through her tear-glossed vision. “it’s been so long.”

she says lightly, “it has.” _and every second away from you felt like an eternity._

then, ”you aged gracefully," she remarks, drawing sode no shirayuki. ichigo throws back his head and laughs, before dissolving into a coughing fit. she watches impassively, her heart twinging at the sight. 

“just send me off," ichigo says, and pauses. "shinigami."

she takes a deep breath. "it's not shinigami," she says, and her voice is fragile, "it’s—“

"rukia," ichigo breathes.

rukia breaks, and then ichigo is there, his arms around her like times long past, his nose in her hair, her head on his chest. the nostalgia would be heartbreaking if her heart was whole in the first place. she won't cry—she refuses to let that happen—but the grip she holds on his white t-shirt is enough to tell him everything he's ever needed to know. _i never forgot about you._

lightly, he says, "i'm getting a little old for this, you know." rukia nods into his chest, too afraid to respond. she's too afraid her voice will crack. "i'm dying," ichigo continues, as if she didn't already know. as if she wasn't here for that exact reason.

then ichigo says, "i'll find you again, rukia. we'll be together, forever." he has one hand at her back, and it steadies her, anchors her to this world.

"what if you don't find me again?" she chokes out.

he looks offended that she even asked. "is that even a question? what's rukongai to the ryoka boy who beat the whole gotei 13?"

she gives a watery chuckle, and grudgingly agrees. she inhales his scent—sandalwood and vanilla and the IV drip in his wrist. his arms around her are warm, heavy. they lie down on his bed and she curls into his side. it feels like coming home.

after a while, she says, "hey, ichigo."

“…”

"…ichigo?"

 

 

 

eleven.

"what are you reading?" byakuya asks, in the suffocating silence.

"peter pan," rukia whispers, and smiles sadly.

 

 

 

twelve.

it's one year ago, today.

her heart is heavy in her chest, weighed down. 

there are footsteps behind her, and a familiar reiatsu washes over her. she feels the heaviness in her heart dissipate; there's a breeze that blows her hair back, and it carries his scent—sandalwood and vanilla and something metallic—to her. she pivots, and he’s standing there, bright orange spikes and deep-set scowl, that gigantic blade wrapped in bandages slung over his shoulders. gone is the stooped countenance, replaced by that familiar warmth, his liquid grace and powerful muscles apparent even in stillness.

"rukia," he says simply. she lets the corners of her mouth tilt up in a faint smile, her hands resting reassuringly on sode no shirayuki. 

she steps toward him, and the story of destiny continues.

 

 

end.

 

 

omake:

"i still can't believe you fell asleep on me right before i was about to send you off."

"hey, i was old, okay!"

"that doesn't give you an excuse! i thought you were dead, fool!"

"ow, you bitch! i said i was sorry!"

**Author's Note:**

> notes: i wrote out most of this in 2013, when i read often & wrote often. i actually think my fic from back then is better than the fic i write now, which is rather embarrassing—oops?
> 
> notes2: kudos &/or a comment would mean the world to me.


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